


i walk the line

by heleus



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Author Uses the Em Dash Too Much, Chronic Pain, Dissociation, Emotional Baggage, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It of Sorts, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, M/M, Male V (Cyberpunk 2077), Mentioned Johnny Silverhand, Nightmares, Nomad V (Cyberpunk 2077), POV V (Cyberpunk 2077), Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Survivor Guilt, The Star Ending (Cyberpunk 2077), V Needs A Hug (Cyberpunk 2077)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-22
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-26 17:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30109701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heleus/pseuds/heleus
Summary: Vito—"V" to everyone but a few—wakes up in Viktor's clinic five days after entering Mikoshi with Johnny.He wakes up alone, with ghosts filling the void that Johnny left behind.Or: V and Kerry learn how to fill Johnny's absence together.
Relationships: Kerry Eurodyne/V
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	i walk the line

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't cope with Cyberpunk 2077's endings, so I wrote this instead.
> 
>  **This fic does include a custom-named V,** if the summary didn't make that clear. I trust that it won't be too much of an issue but I also know some people don't like fics where they can't plug their own character into the plot. This is a fic specifically about my V as a character, so it's not as versatile. Hope it's not a dealbreaker!
> 
> I alternate between referring to my character as 'V' and 'Vito', though I typically only refer to him as Vito when he is around Kerry. I have a lot of headcanons regarding his name, the most specific being that he only lets a specific few people call him by his real name, and I tried to show this contextually.
> 
> Regarding the "implied relationships" tag and anything that comes up in the fic, I will be heavily implying that Vito and Johnny had something that bordered on a romantic relationship. It was never anything defined but I feel the need to clarify that this is _not_ done behind Kerry's back or anything. Vito is an ambiamorous (meaning he is happy in both monogamous and polygamous relationships) character of my own creation and Kerry is well aware of the circumstances of their relationship. It is not the main focus of the fic, either, and it will only really be brought up a few times.
> 
> Anyway, with that clarification out of the way, I hope you guys enjoy reading this angst-fest as much as I enjoyed writing it. :]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **ag·no·sia**  
>  _noun - medicine_  
>  — the inability to interpret sensations and hence to recognize things, typically as a result of brain damage.

The room's atmosphere is cold against his skin.

His head pounds in rhythm with his heartbeat. Light pushes against his squinted eyelids as if demanding entry, but the throbbing of his head is a good sign that he shouldn't open his eyes. He doubts that he could even if he wanted to; the lids of his eyes feel incredibly heavy, calling him once more into sleep's embrace.

It feels as though he's just surfaced from an abyss in which time does not exist. He has no guesses as to his location—he could be flatlined already and he would be none the wiser. The sound of blood in his ears is the only indication that he is alive at all, but even that is undependable proof.

 _'Johnny?'_ he asks into the void of his skull, which feels empty in an indescribable way. It is as though his skull is too large for the brain that it protects. 

Complete silence is all he is given in return.

The situation gives him a bit of déjà vu; he's been here one too many times before, existing in the lull of awareness that comes just before he begins to wake from a bout of unconsciousness. A notable difference is present this time, though: Johnny is seemingly nowhere to be found, which is concerning given the nature of his existence—there aren't many places he _could_ go.

 _'Johnny... where are you?'_ he questions again. Apprehension builds within his chest and occupies his lungs, depriving him of the ability to breathe deeply. He finds that he cannot recall what led them here—his mind's a bit of a mess at the moment, a collection of unfamiliar, fragmented memories that add up to nothing at all.

After a few continual seconds without sound, his ears begin to feel as if he's breaching the surface of water after remaining immersed for a long while. Sounds rush in, and he has a hard time distinguishing them from one another—they exist only as one collective stream of auditory feedback. He recognizes the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor and the familiar hum of electricity; there are voices, somewhere, but they sound as though he is attempting to eavesdrop through a concrete wall.

 _'Johnny...'_ he calls once more, his forehead creasing as he struggles with the feeling of searching for something— _someone_ —within his own mind. The strain causes his headache to worsen, bringing around the recognizable feeling of his skull splitting into two separate halves.

Against his better judgment, he decides to open his eyes, though he is instantly made to regret the decision. Light pierces into his eyes, and the resulting experience is something that he has become too accustomed to—his brain is temporarily overloaded with sensory input, a byproduct of his neural pathways rewiring themselves. Every sound, sight, and texture is amplified in such a way that he can barely process the fractured thoughts that form within his head.

One thought lingers, though: if he's still having issues with the Relic, then where the hell is Johnny?

"Fuuuck," he groans lowly after a moment, his voice rough with disuse. He swallows dryly, nausea pressing up through his throat. "'m gonna puke."

The lights are all yellow-purple-pink, merging together to form an uncomfortably bright hue that presses against the backs of his eyes. His vision is still too bleary to properly decipher his location, so he resigns himself to throwing his half-numb arm over his face to shield his eyes.

"Well, look who's back with us," comes a familiar voice. "Gettin' too used to having you in here, kid."

Recognizing the voice takes him a moment as if his brain has to thumb through the files of everyone that he has ever met. The length of time it takes for him to place such a name on such a familiar friend causes a gnawing uneasiness to claw at the back of his mind.

"Viktor...? Christ, how did I get here? Did Johnny...?"

He can't finish the sentence, too afraid to be faced with a reality that confirms his fears; Johnny has to be _somewhere_ , given that they shared a brain. He couldn't have just disappeared altogether—could he?

Viktor is quiet for a moment, and V knows him well enough to know that it means he's about to unleash some news—be it good or bad—onto his weary mind.

"V, do you know what happened?" the doc inquires, his tone reserved as though he is withholding judgment. "Anything at all?"

V shakes his head, then groans again when the action causes pain to radiate from his forehead. "Fuck. No, I don't, Vic. I can barely think in words right now."

He's pretty certain that he can hear colors right now.

"That's alright. Take your time—you've been out for days now," Viktor tells him, resting a hand on his shoulder. The touch would be comforting if not for the given circumstances—it's grounding, though, an anchor against the waves of nausea that plow viciously into him.

V runs his hand down his face before raising his head off of the chair. The developing migraine causes him to wince, but he's become too used to the feeling of his skull working against him, and panic grips him tighter than the pain ever could.

 _Days_. He's been out for days—tick tick tick, the clock in his head taunts him. 

"Days? Vic—" V speaks as he attempts to pull himself into a sitting position with weak arms, hands clinging to the armrests, but then he slows against the onslaught of vertigo. He holds his breath for a moment, allowing the bout of queasiness to pass before sliding back into the chair with an audible exhale. "Fuck. _Fuck!_ Days?"

"Relax, V," Viktor urges him, tightening the grasp he has on the young man's shoulder. "Take it easy. You're going to be... off-kilter for a while. Don't push yourself."

V regards Viktor incredulously, his chest rising and falling rapidly due to the sudden exertion. "Are you gonna tell me what's goin' on, or am I just supposed to sit here and look stupid?"

He falters and then pauses, pressing his face into his palms to hide his embarrassment. He isn't sure where the outburst came from, but it feels so uncharacteristic of him that for a moment he thinks it may be something he picked up from Johnny. He then remembers that Johnny was _driven_ , determined, perhaps a bit callous, too—then it registers that he's already mentally referring to Johnny in the past tense, and something cold roots into his chest.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to... be a dick just then," he says absently, a bit of shame seeping into the words. Viktor doesn't deserve such harsh treatment—especially not after all he's been through just to help V through whatever this clusterfuck with Johnny has become.

Vic sighs, his brows pulling together with visible worry. His hand falls off of V's shoulder and swings by his side; it's a nervous habit that V has noticed more and more as his visits become increasingly frequent. "Hold on just a sec. Tell me what's got you so stirred up."

"The chip," V croaks, and his voice is quieter now, dampened with the solemnness that follows Johnny's lingering absence. "Ain't it killin' me? If I'm skippin' days... shit, did I have another attack? I can't even hear Johnny anymore..."

Viktor releases yet another breath, turning to examine some scans of V's brain—V thinks he could do without ever seeing what kind of chaos was going on within his head. "You really don't remember, then. Okay. What's the last thing you _can_ remember?"

"C'mon, Vic, I feel like m'head's splittin' apart just talkin' to you. Damn near burst my skull tryin' to talk to Johnny," V mumbles, the words tumbling haphazardly out of his lips. "The bastard didn't answer me. I... I'll try to remember somethin'."

He feels overcome with exhaustion, but makes an attempt to push through the fog occupying his brain—he needs to know what happened to him, what happened to _Johnny_.

V breathes deeply, shutting his eyes as he searches the expanses of his mind for the threads of a memory—any memory would work, he just aches to feel normal again. "Most recent, I... I'm on the roof with Misty. An' I'm talkin' to Johnny, but I can't remember what about."

"Any details come to mind?" Viktor asks, his fingers audibly tapping against a keyboard. "They don't have to be specific."

His head throbs in protest against the sudden exertion, pressure building against his temples as if to punish him for the strain. "Mmh. I remember it was nighttime and... I get the feelin' it was pretty important. That's all I remember, Vic. Feelings. Nothin'... cohesive."

"Okay. Last question, promise. What feelings do you remember?"

"Mm. You know I'm fuckin' terrible at expressin' my feelings," V rasps, his voice grating against his throat. He continues after a pause. "I... I remember fear. It's kind of... foggy, like I'm lookin' through someone else's eyes. I remember bein' scared, but... ready. Like I wasn't gonna run anymore."

Viktor nods, stepping back from the terminal and facing V once again. "Alright. That happened about five days ago—you've been out for four of those days. You really don't remember what you were doing on the roof?"

"Nothin' more than talkin' to Johnny. But like I said, I can't even remember what we were talkin' about," V explains, his stomach churning with unease. "Vic? What happened—why don't I see Johnny anymore? Feels like I'm losin' my mind. Heh... pretty ironic, I guess."

"V, can you remember Mikoshi?" Viktor questions him, his arms folding over his chest. He watches V with a complex expression—it's something between curiosity and worry; not quite afraid, but almost so.

Mikoshi. The word pulls at the back of his mind like hands reaching into the depths of murky, cloudy water. Memories dance on the edges of his consciousness as if to taunt him and beckon him further into the unknown, and he almost feels the need to follow them.

He chases the ghosts of his memories, of everything he has forgotten because of a reason he has not yet discovered. The word _Mikoshi_ in itself draws a number of images to the front of his subconscious; lines of code that are blue on blue on blue, and the feeling of not feeling anything at all.

"It feels... familiar," V murmurs, shutting his eyes against the worsening pressure inside of his skull. "I was there. I know I was, but... I..."

Realization sets upon him before he can say anything more, his breath escaping his lips on a weak exhalation. Suddenly, everything begins to make sense: the unbearable headaches, the disorientation... Johnny's absence.

Johnny has not answered him because there _is_ no Johnny, not anymore. V saw to that personally; he remembers, now, condemning the man to a fate beyond the Blackwall. He remembers it all in a way that's so vivid yet so far away from himself, so many worlds away that he could almost pretend it to be false. Visions of Johnny sitting beside him on the edge of the well within Mikoshi filter into his consciousness.

Johnny has not answered him because Johnny is _gone_.

"Mikoshi worked," V speaks, pressing his fingers against his closed eyes. Something raw builds within his chest—something too akin to a sob that he struggles to keep down—and he fights off the ceaseless nausea that overcomes him. "...He's gone, isn't he?"

"How much do you recall?" Viktor asks, his voice tinged with sadness—or perhaps it is empathy, or pity. V hasn't the energy to try and figure out which of the three it really is.

V groans, his head swimming; between the migraine and the realization that Johnny has truly disappeared, he's having a hard time thinking straight. "Bits 'n pieces. Mikoshi was where Johnny 'n I were supposed to separate. I know I talked with him and Alt, and she told me that I had been packed into an engram that was s'posed to replace Johnny's engram. Don't remember the rest of the conversation too clearly, but... I know we said g'bye. For good."

V wants to slip into the emptiness of sleep forever now. How he could be so selfish as to rip Johnny's life away from him is unbeknownst to him, but one thing is certain: the old V, the one that died in the landfill after receiving a bullet to the face? That V never would have sacrificed a friend so that he could continue to live. Or, perhaps he already had; maybe this was a pattern that had begun to develop after Jackie died because of V's selfish and reckless personality. Maybe V had always seen himself through a self-glorifying lens—he only had to lose _so much_ for him to finally see it.

He makes no effort to fight off the guilt (or grief—V's not entirely sure which of the two it is) that comes to settle within him.

"The engram replacement seems to be working," Vic tells him, opting to avoid the sensitive topic of V's relationship with Johnny for the time being. "Scans of your brain are already beginning to look more similar to your brain structure before you had the biochip. Right now, most of your body's energy is going into undoing the changes that your body made to accommodate Johnny's DNA. In short, this means that your brain is rewiring the neural pathways that got altered to support Johnny's consciousness."

V finally reopens his eyes, still squinting against the barrage of light that hits his face. "'S that why my head hurts so damn much?" he asks in a mostly rhetorical way. "So... how long 'til I feel normal again?"

V tentatively ignores the touchy subject of the obvious psychological trauma that he has endured. If he thinks too hard about the emptiness inside of his mind and Johnny's palpable absence, he knows that the abyss will swallow him whole without a second thought.

"It's hard to say. Given the... unique nature of your situation, it could take weeks. But yes, this is why you're getting such intense headaches. Your brain is trying to undo all of the changes that it's made over the past few weeks, but it should be slightly easier to manage now that you're the only personality to accommodate. You'll have to take pain medication for a while, and you'll probably experience frequent nosebleeds for a time, but they should dwindle as you recover," Viktor explains, the words pressing against V's ears with an uncomfortable force. "You'll probably sleep a lot for the first couple of days."

"I was already plannin' on it," V grumbles, once again attempting to pull himself upright. He grimaces as he does so, his brain feeling loose inside his skull, but at least the nausea has subsided for the most part. "...Thanks, Vic. I know I... put you through a lot with this."

"None of that nonsense, kid. I'm just glad I was able to help you through it," Viktor assures him, squeezing his shoulder. "Besides, you were out cold for days. All I had to do was make sure your brain and heart activity remained stable—they did, thankfully. Everything is looking good, V. You're going to survive this. Hell, I'd say you already have."

V refrains from mentioning what it cost; it would be nearly impossible to accurately express just how much was lost because of his naivety—how much was lost _because_ of him. It would be even harder still to express how many bits of himself had fallen off along the way.

So instead, he nods slightly, stretching his arms out in front of him and splaying his fingers. He tries to enjoy the notion of simply feeling anything at all. "My fingers are numb," he laments dryly, gazing at his hands through half-closed eyelids. "Like they're asleep or somethin'."

"It's to be expected," the doc says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "It's another side effect of your brain fixing itself. It shouldn't get any worse, but I can't predict how long it'll last."

"Mmh," V hums, dropping his hands into his lap as he presses his thumbs together in an attempt to rid himself of the loss of feeling. He raises his eyes and meets Viktor's glance for the first time. "Do me a favor?"

Viktor looks at him expectantly, raising his eyebrows. "Whaddya need?" he inquires, the corners of his lips tilting upwards.

After a moment, V drops back into the chair—he feels too weak to continue holding his posture—as he closes his eyes again and ignores the rising sense of incompetence within him. "Call Ker for me? I... He..." 

He lets the sentence falter and dissipate in the air, suddenly feeling incredibly fatigued. He feels that he doesn't need to comment on how a call on the holo will almost certainly make his brain pour out of his ears in a liquefied sludge. He also does not comment on the nauseating amount of guilt that begins to erupt within him. It's been five days since he called Kerry from the rooftop; five days since he'd sentenced Johnny to a fate possibly worse than death itself.

He wonders with a heavy mind if Kerry had been aware of the circumstances of his call at all. Has he spent the past week preoccupied with a worry that V is so very undeserving of, or has he instead felt as though V has been too busy to contact him? Neither thought is comforting in the slightest, and briefly he longs for Johnny's guidance before shoving the thought back into whatever dark crevice it had escaped from.

V just wants to feel Kerry's hands upon his skin again.

He allows himself to doze just a bit, settling uneasily in between sleep and wakefulness. He finds a cautious balance by focusing only upon the sounds around him rather than the deafening roar of his thoughts. The steady tempo of his heart monitor is enough of a constant that he's able to drown his mind for just a moment, if only long enough to allow himself a respite from the constant ache of being awake. Viktor is considerate enough to talk in a hushed tone, and though V admittedly strains his ears a bit in an attempt to hear Kerry's voice, he eventually settles entirely into the chair.

He remains in a strange limbo between slumber and consciousness, and he knows that he would have long since fallen asleep if he wasn't so desperate to see Kerry again. He needs to feel something that isn't this ceaseless guilt and emptiness, something that doesn't blatantly remind him of just how _gone_ Johnny really is. Somewhere within him, he knows that he's simply asking for a distraction from the inevitable effect of all the destruction he has caused—then he feels sick for allowing his brain to even begin to classify Kerry as a _distraction_.

The chip is not killing V, not anymore, but his guilt very well might.

He cannot even begin to fathom how he will tell Kerry that he's the reason Johnny is never coming back. Sure, V is the reason that Kerry saw him again, but _Johnny_ is the reason V ever met Kerry in the first place—and as much as V aches to hear Johnny's voice again, he cannot bear the idea of being the reason that Kerry lost his friend for the second time. He loathes the idea of being the cause for any sort of pain that his lover may endure. But life in its entirety cares little for the fickle wants and needs of people like him, so it's a weight he carries nonetheless, binding him to the acts that he committed out of little more than a selfish need.

The sound of rushed footsteps is the only thing that pulls V out of the deep trenches of his mind before he falls into it entirely. Though his eyes work against him, chiding him for attempting to escape sleep once more, he wills himself to shake himself awake and sit up again.

Kerry stands in the doorway of Viktor's clinic, his chest rising and falling with rapid and uneven breaths. His eyes meet Viktor before darting in V's direction, his worried expression instantly relaxing with one of relief.

"I came as soon as I got the call," Kerry says as he makes his way over to V, tenderly cupping his face with his palms. He runs his thumbs over V's cheeks—V cannot suppress the sigh that follows. "Do you know what I've been doing for the past four days? I've been calling everyone I know—you didn't answer your texts. _Shit_ , Vito, I was so fucking scared."

Vito grabs onto both of Kerry's wrists, letting his hands linger there. "It's okay, Ker. I'm okay."

"Fuck," Kerry whispers, resting his forehead against Vito's. "I thought you... fuck, I dunno. I dunno what I thought. What happened?"

"We found Mikoshi," he murmurs with a trembling voice, rubbing his thumb against Kerry's wrist. He pauses for a moment, swallowing all the words he can't bring himself to say. "Can we go home? I'll tell you on the way. I jus' need t'stretch my legs."

Kerry nods, pulling away from Vito's face. "Is he... okay?" he asks Viktor as V pulls himself further out of the chair.

"Mmh. I said I'd tell you," Vito grumbles after a pause, clinging to Kerry's arm as he attempts to bring himself to his feet.

His legs threaten to betray him, trembling weakly under the strain of carrying his body weight. The world seemingly spins beneath his feet—his skull feels as though it's about to burst right then and there—and he releases a heavy breath through clenched teeth.

"Easy," Kerry murmurs, wrapping his arm around V's shoulder. "C'mere. Lean on me."

In typical circumstances, Vito would indignantly protest, fighting to keep his pride afloat. Now, though—now he eases himself against Kerry's frame, resting his head against his shoulder and inhaling the familiar smell of leather and cigarettes. He clings to Kerry's jacket as if it is a lifeline against the bout of dizziness that overcomes him.

"Hang on," he exhales, breathing slowly through his nose. "Fuck, my head hurts."

Kerry presses his lips against Vito's hair as Viktor approaches them with a bottle of pills. Kerry's hand presses comfortably into his shoulder; it's a grounding sensation compared to the rough edges of his mind, and V leans into it as if it were as familiar as home.

"They're painkillers—they should help with the migraines," Viktor says, then turning to Kerry. "I'll tell you what I told him: he's probably going to be sleeping a lot for these next couple of days, and he may experience nosebleeds or recurring numbness in his hands. All of these things will pass, though. If anything worsens, just give me a call."

Kerry pockets the pills and thanks Viktor for all of his help, gently tightening the hold he has on V. Vito hums, tentatively stepping in rhythm with Kerry as they leave the clinic. His head aches with a ferocity that he hasn't felt since the Relic would malfunction and cause seizures—something he hopes to leave in the past—and though walking certainly doesn't make it any better, he finds it easier to endure knowing that he'll be able to go home and _sleep_.

They step outside, and a breeze touches gently upon his cheeks. Standing here, pressed comfortably against Kerry's body, listening to the sounds of the city—he closes his eyes for a moment, takes in the feeling. For a moment, just a moment, the chaos within his mind settles.

Night City's air is thick with its trademark industrial smell, but Vito has never been happier to smell something that isn't the inside of a ripperdoc's clinic. He means no offense to Viktor, of course, but one can only tolerate the smell of blood and cleaning products for so long. He inhales deeply, enjoying the sensation of the air filling his lungs. Despite the brightness of the city at night, he's grateful for the nighttime—he's not sure his eyes could handle full sunlight.

Their car sits by the curb, its engine still running. Vito would chide Kerry for leaving it so vulnerable to theft if it didn't feel as though his head was about to fall off of his shoulders. Some part of him feels touched, though, because the scene very clearly displays Kerry's urgency in getting to him.

The warmth he feels is quickly eaten away by guilt, though—and he's not sure if he feels worse for _causing_ worry or being worried _about_.

"Thanks, Ker," he murmurs as his partner helps him into the passenger seat. He lets his forehead fall against the coolness of the glass window, releasing a heavy sigh.

Kerry gives Vito's temple a kiss after sliding into the driver's seat. "Missed you," he says simply, though it's anything _but_ simple. Vito knows how much Kerry hates admitting his own vulnerability, so it's a gesture that allows the corners of V's lips to quirk upwards just enough.

"I missed you more," Vito counters, letting his hand rest on Kerry's thigh as the man begins to drive them home. "I... Fuck, Ker. I'm sorry I made you worry. I'm sorry I... shit. Vic tells me I was out for four days straight."

"Four?" Kerry echoes with surprise. Vito doesn't have to look at his face to picture his expression: raised eyebrows that somehow manage to look concerned and surprised at the same time, eyes full of worry. "Shit. So that's why you weren't... Okay. Can you tell me what the fuck a Mikoshi is?"

V's headache grows.

"Mhm. You remember when I called you that night?" he inquires, the memory coming to the forefront of his mind in fragments. Night City's breeze against his face, determination in his chest—a hesitant worry, but an even stronger conviction.

"Couldn't forget it," Kerry says, his voice low. "Christ, Vito, you could've told me. I would've... I dunno. Done _something_."

Vito squeezes Kerry's thigh gently. "No. This was something I had to do. Alone. I couldn't put you in any danger. If you... If I... I just couldn't. Mikoshi... it is—was—the place where Johnny and I needed to go. To... well, to separate him from me."

V suddenly feels very, very sick, and this time, he suspects it has nothing to do with his migraine; this sickness is deeper, festering, rooting into him as if it is here to stay.

"And you did that _alone_? Where the fuck even is Mikoshi?" Kerry bites out, but his voice is not angry—it's rough, worried, each word pulled taut over every syllable.

"Not alone. I had help from Panam and the Aldecaldos. Out from the Badlands. But... we had to breach Arasaka Tower to reach Mikoshi's access point. Shit, Ker... people died because of me," Vito whispers, swallowing harshly against the growing lump in his throat. "But, uh, Mikoshi... it worked. I got packed into an engram and Johnny..."

_'Goodbye, V.'_

The words pierce his consciousness like knives—he remembers Johnny's hand resting heavily upon his shoulder, weighted with a million things that they never said.

And suddenly, it feels like Vito can't breathe, like each breath is tightening his chest more and more and _more_ until he can't quite gather enough air in his lungs.

"Ker, I'm so sorry," Vito chokes out, withdrawing his hand from Kerry's thigh and burying his face into his hands. The pressure in his head has come to a crescendo—but still it's not enough to fill the void that Johnny has left behind. "He's gone because of me. I could've let him have my body. I dunno what would've happened to me but—but you would've gotten to see him again and I took it from you, Kerry. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

The tightness of his chest is inescapable. He feels as though he's dying, slowly, suffocating in his own body. His skin feels too constricting, too unfamiliar—he should be a collection of ones and zeroes, drifting without a consciousness beyond the Blackwall, but instead he's here—here with Kerry, crushed by the weight of everything that he has taken from his lover.

"I—I'm sorry, Kerry, I'm sorry," Vito gasps, pressing the heels of his palms into his face. His heartbeat is a thunderous sound in his ears—it's too loud, though, overwhelmingly so. Every additional noise only increases the hysteria—everything is so _much_ , and he can't do anything but hyperventilate into his hands, his chest moving erratically with the motions.

"V," Kerry's voice reaches his ears through the deafening sound of his heart. His hand lands on Vito's knee, and his thumb rubs circles there. " _Vito_. Take deep breaths. Can you do that?"

Vito runs his hands down his face, digging his fingers into the skin of his cheeks. They tremble against his skin and he can't feel much besides the numbness that results from his hyperventilation.

"'M tryin'. 'M sorry," he says, trying to force deeper breaths into his lungs. Each of his senses is positively overwhelmed, but he tries to center himself on the feeling of Kerry's hand against his knee. "Fuck."

"Listen, try to relax, m'kay? We'll talk about this in the morning, after you've slept. We're not far from the villa now," Kerry tells him gently, and Vito is so _afraid_. The idea of losing Kerry sits at the forefront of his mind, daring him to tip the balance just so—to see how upset Kerry inevitably is, to see how much more he can lose before he inevitably goes over the edge.

"Don't you want to—" he speaks on the tail's end of a breath, unable to finish the sentence. Still his breath comes to him in short, rapid bursts. "Aren't you—?"

Kerry raises his eyebrows, giving Vito a passing glance before refocusing his gaze upon the road. "Mad? No. I don't entirely understand what happened, but... well, I dunno how I feel right now. I'm processin' it, but... honestly? I just want to sleep with you in my arms again, V. I miss the feeling."

Vito remains silent; there are too many things that he cannot gather the courage to voice—too many what-ifs, too many buts, too many feelings of senseless worthlessness. So he says with action what he cannot say with words: he reaches out with his hand, still trembling, his fingers hesitantly settling upon Kerry's thigh once more. And he speaks no words, but the gesture alone says all of the phrases that he cannot speak, all of the gratitude and relief and vulnerability.

The car pulls through the gate of Kerry's property a few minutes afterwards, its headlights illuminating the driveway. Vito feels as though he's never been so relieved to see such a familiar slab of concrete; its existence before him is calming in an exceptionally abstract way. He stretches, welcoming the presence of feeling in the tips of his fingers—now, the violent tremors that shook his body before exist only as light shakes—and a yawn follows quickly in its wake.

Kerry slides out of the driver's seat, humming a tune that V hasn't yet heard. He circles around the front of the car to open the passenger side door, shushing the beginnings of Vito's protests and offering his hands as leverage.

"C'mon, I gotcha," he says. V does not miss the tiredness in Kerry's eyes—but there's a softness there, too, a certain fondness that Vito doesn't think he will ever grow used to.

"New tune?" Vito asks as he comes to a stand with Kerry's help, then taking a few steps backwards. "'M okay. I can walk."

"Yeah, nothin' serious yet, but I've got a couple of ideas floating around," Kerry replies, and Vito is grateful for the utter normalcy of it all. Kerry doesn't pry further after V resists his help—he seems to understand V's boundaries, though he hovers readily by the man's side without a word.

"You should play for me sometime," Vito says quietly as they walk towards the mansion. Though his headache has lessened to a dull ache now, he still does not entirely trust his own two feet—if he leans into Kerry just a bit, neither of them say anything about it. "I like hearing you play."

A smile plays upon Kerry's lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes just _right_ —Vito thinks he could drink this moment in forever. "I'm going to hold you to that, Vito," Kerry speaks smugly, his arm making its way around his waist.

"That's not a bad thing," Vito retorts, grinning just enough so that his tongue can poke out from between his teeth.

As they enter the building, they fall silent once more, but it's not an uncomfortable silence in any fashion. The interior of Kerry's mansion looks almost exactly as it did when Vito last visited; it's less tidy now, undoubtedly a byproduct of Kerry's five-day worry streak which had been no one's fault but V's. There's something akin to shame—or guilt, perhaps remorse—building within him, but there are some things that are better left unsaid, unspoken. Vito cannot bring himself to destroy the tender moment that they have built for themselves.

Kerry leads him into their bedroom, his hands tenderly touching upon his shoulders. They say nothing, but Vito can feel every word coming through Kerry's fingertips. The _'I missed you'_ and the _'_ _I was fucking terrified for you'_ don't have to be spoken for Vito to know them. Kerry helps him out of his clothes—they're the same clothes that he assaulted Arasaka Tower in—and drops them to the floor.

He sheds his Samurai jacket and blood-soaked jeans like they are his second skin.

V pretends that he doesn't notice the way Kerry's eyes linger upon the bruises and scrapes that pepper his upper body. "C'mon," he says softly, "Let's get you into the shower."

Vito keeps quiet, his eyes locking onto the Samurai jacket for a second too long. His eyes examine his body as if it were benign to him; there's dried blood in blotches across his face and his neck—his torso flaunts a collection of new gashes and scars. "There's..." he starts, the husks of unspoken sentences falling upon his tongue.

Kerry should be mad at him; he should be yelling, or at the very least offering the cold shoulder—not tending to Vito in every way that he doesn't deserve.

"Shh," Kerry murmurs, starting the shower's water. His hands run up and down Vito's arms, and he's careful to avoid the bruises—his fingertips dance upon his skin like static electricity. "It's okay."

V lets himself be helped into the shower without a word. He watches as the water soaks into his skin and his hair, pulling the blood away from his skin—it tints the water pink, too diluted to be entirely red, and Vito is not sure how much of it belongs to him. Saul, Bob, Teddy, _Johnny_ —all of their blood is on his hands, in some cases quite literally, but the heaviest sacrifice is the one that sheds no blood.

Kerry joins him after having taken a moment to remove his own clothes, and V breathes a soft sigh in his presence.

"He's..." Vito begins, but the words tangle together within his throat and become lost there. He figures there's no point in saying them anyway; he's sure that Kerry can see the ghosts in his eyes without trying, sure that he can see the half-beating heart that he bears upon his sleeve.

For some reason, even if Kerry knows what V did to Johnny, it hasn't seemed to change his attitude towards him. This comes as a bit of a shock to Vito, because some part of his connection to Kerry has always been _because_ of Johnny. And though he knows that Kerry wouldn't be here with him now if Johnny was all he cared about, some part of him is still so fearful of finding the truth and discovering that it's not what he hoped it would be.

So he instead resigns to letting himself lean back against Kerry. Kerry, who is so very alive against his back, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of breath. Kerry, whose heart beats and warms his skin just so that Vito can feel it beneath his fingers and tell himself that Kerry is _alive_.

Kerry hums softly, a continuation of the melody that they spoke of in the driveway. His hand settles comfortably over V's shoulder as he reaches for a bottle of shampoo, and Vito tilts his head back to wordlessly give his permission. He shuts his eyes, letting the water come over his face as he listens to Kerry hum.

Kerry's hands gently massage the soap into Vito's hair—he's cautious to avoid applying too much pressure, but he's not hesitant; he tends to V as though it's something he's done numerous times before. V exhales, letting his mind spiel strings of empty thoughts as he centers himself, so very enthralled with the feeling of Kerry's company.

"C'mon, rinse it out," Kerry says after a minute passes, drawing Vito out from the recesses of his consciousness.

Vito obeys without much thought, bringing his head beneath the steady flow of water and watching the soap trickle down the drain upon the water's current. He shifts slightly, turning his head to the side to meet Kerry's glance.

He cups Kerry's cheek with his hand, running his thumb along the man's cheekbone. "Thank you, Ker," he murmurs, pulling him close and planting a kiss upon his lips. "Really. You shouldn't have to..."

"Vito. It's okay," Kerry tells him, his hands coming back to his partner's shoulders. He regards V with eyes so full of love and nothing but—Vito feels the familiar unease of unworthiness make its way up his throat. "I wanted to help you. Shit, it feels good just to see you again—so don't say that. It's okay."

Vito pointedly ignores the guilt that threatens to pour out of his mouth.

"'M gettin' tired," he says instead, and though it's not entirely false, there is some part of him that doesn't want Kerry to see him this way. He doesn't want Kerry to see him so completely drained, so vulnerable and exposed—doesn't want it to change the way Kerry thinks of him, or the way Kerry _loves_ him. Because Kerry does love him, and though it's something that he feels so terribly undeserving of, it's something that he _needs_.

It's a deplorable, selfish need, but it exists nonetheless, because all he knows how to do is take and take and _take_.

"V..." Kerry sighs as he runs his thumb along Vito's upper lip. It comes away red, and V watches numbly as he rinses his hand beneath the water's flow. "You're bleeding."

" _Fuck_ ," Vito hisses, pulling away from Kerry sharply as he touches his own fingertips to the skin beneath his nose. "Gimme—gimme a sec, I'm gonna go clean this up. I— shit, Ker. 'M sorry."

His chest feels tight again.

He stumbles out of the shower, completely and unequivocally irritated—or terrified, afraid, ashamed. He cannot even enjoy a simple shower with Kerry because the Relic still finds some way to torment him; perhaps this is some otherworldly punishment for the level of selfishness he had to succumb to in order to sentence Johnny to the fate that he received. Kerry speaks after him, assuring him that he has no reason to apologize and that he'll join him after he finishes up in the shower—Vito feels positively _sick_ , his head heavy with a growing pressure that weighs against the surface of his skull.

He leans against the countertop, his quivering fingers clinging to its surface for leverage. Hesitantly he raises his hand to wipe the condensation away from the mirror—and for a moment, _just a moment_ , he swears his reflection bears a striking resemblance to Johnny Silverhand. The vision disappears as he blinks and the mirror shows him only the sight of his blue, frightened eyes—they stare right back at him like they belong to a stranger. There's red staining his skin from his nose to his lips and V sees red on blue on red.

He has to remind himself to breathe.

Vito takes a cautious, shivering breath, tearing his eyes away from his reflection as he rubs water on his face to rid himself of the blood. His head throbs violently—he can't help but feel as though Johnny's ghost is still within him somewhere, begging to be freed from the confines of his mind. Dragging a towel down his face, he kills the thought—but it doesn't leave, it only settles like a beast ready for slumber.

Once he's certain that he's quelled the bleeding, V pulls on the boxers that Kerry had left upon the counter for him—there's a pair of sweatpants, too, but V leaves them behind, wanting to feel nothing but the warmth of Kerry's skin against his own.

He strays from the bathroom then, stepping into Kerry's (their?) bedroom and letting himself fall into the bed. His head still pulses violently—it always does for a time after the nosebleeds, though he's not sure which causes which.

Vito buries his face in the pillows and takes a deep breath—Kerry's comforting aroma of cigarettes and cologne lingers heavily here, and there's never been a better smell to touch upon his senses. He pulls the covers over his bare skin, nestling himself into the blankets and letting himself bask in the careful sense of serenity that comes upon him.

Vito is vaguely aware of the sound of the shower being shut off—Kerry steps into the room not long after, and V turns his head slightly, shaking the clasp of sleep from his eyes. His head vehemently protests the sudden movement, and he makes an attempt to suppress a wince.

"Hey, you," he says lightly, shifting beneath the blankets. He quirks his lips, patting the space beside him. "Get over here."

"You forgot your sweatpants," Kerry speaks tenderly, settling into bed next to Vito. He smells faintly of cigarettes, of soap and _home_. "Or did you do that on purpose?"

Vito lifts the covers—he lets Kerry press his chest against his back, takes in the feeling of his company. "Mm. Did it on purpose. I..." he shuts his eyes as Kerry settles behind him, draping one of his arms over Vito's waist and laying his head upon the pillow. His breath is warm against V's neck. "I needed _this_. I... missed you, Ker. So much."

And he says it—he says it and he means it, despite how selfish it is for him to need anything from Kerry right now; he says it not because he needs the touch, or the love, or the care, but because he needs _Kerry_.

"Could sleep forever like this," Kerry says, nuzzling his face into the crook of V's neck, loving him in all of the ways that he doesn't deserve. "God, V, I was so fucking scared."

"I'm here now, Ker," V murmurs, swallowing roughly against all of the unspoken apologies that linger in his throat. "I'm here now."

"I know," Kerry breathes, his voice quiet.

Vito shuts his eyes against everything they have left to say and follows his thoughts into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this chapter for just over a week. So excited to share it with you guys! I'm hoping to get another chapter out by the start of April (and note that the fic may be longer or shorter than the listed five chapters depending on how much I'm able to plan for it).
> 
> Kudos and comments much appreciated, and as always, thanks for reading!


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